


The Most Dangerous Game

by INMH



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College!AU, Friendship, Gen, Humor, minor language, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Les Miserables kink meme. Modern!AU, in which Jehan becomes a hunter of sorts, and the Amis are afraid for their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Dangerous Game

**Author's Note:**

> [Link to the Les Miserables Kink Meme.](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html)

“Do you see him?”  
  
“No, no, I think he’s in class now.”  
  
“I wouldn’t put it past him to skip. Not today.”  
  
“Then there’s no way we’re getting past Horton, at least not with any certainty that he won’t descend upon us like a great-horned owl swoops down on a group of defenseless mice-”  
  
“Oh, stop getting all prose-y, it’s not that serious.”  
  
“Okay, can we move now? Seriously? I have a branch jamming right into my-”  
  
“ _Why_ are you three hiding in the bushes?”  
  
Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Bahorel all jumped a mile and scrabbled out from under their leafy coverage, fully intending to bolt until they realized who the new voice belonged to. “Enjolras! What brings you down this way? It’s barely one o’ clock.” Courfeyrac exclaimed brightly as he hopped to his feet.  
  
Enjolras was observing with some bemusement the fact that all three of them had at least one leaf entangled in their hair and looked like they had been rolling around in the dirt; it took him a moment to respond. “I… Wasn’t feeling especially well, and left class early.”  
  
“Do we need to call an ambulance?” Grantaire quipped. Enjolras’s devotion to his studies was well-known by all who knew him, and so if he was actually ill enough to consider leaving class there was a very reasonable possibility that a trip to the hospital was in order.  
  
“That won’t be necessary.” Enjolras remarked, deadpanned. “Answer my question.”  
Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Grantaire all looked at one another. “It may have come to your attention,” Courfeyrac began delicately, “That the CRAKS-BC-”  
  
“The _what?_ ”  
  
“The ‘Commit Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Beauty Club’.” Bahorel filled in. “Courfeyrac just likes saying ‘crack’.”  
  
“The CRAKS-BC, of which our very own Jean Prouvaire is a member-”  
  
“He’s the _only_ member.” Grantaire interjected with a growl as he reached down and pulled a twig out of his shoe.  
  
“Would you let me _finish?_ They’re participating in National Free Hugs Day. And to make a long story short, Jehan is taking it a touch too seriously.”  
  
Enjolras nodded slowly. “And when you say ‘too seriously’, you mean…?”  
  
“We _mean_ that he stalked Joly to two of his morning classes and stood outside of the window _staring at him_ until he relented and excused himself so that Jehan could offer him a hug.” Grantaire said flatly.  
  
“We _mean_ that he accidentally surprised Combeferre in the kitchen this morning, and that’s why there are now coffee stains on the ceiling.” Courfeyrac added.  
  
“We _mean_ that he tackle-hugged Bossuet from behind and knocked them both onto his bed. Which then broke. And the motion from the bed being shaken knocked a glass off of Bossuet’s bedside table- it broke, and he ended up getting a shard of glass stuck in his foot. Took Joly twenty minutes to fish it out and bandage it up.”  
  
Enjolras stared at Bahorel for a long moment. “You’re lying.” He finally declared.  
  
“I’m really not. Text him.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Bahorel reached into his pocket. “Fine, I’ll text him for-”  
  
“NO, YOU FOOL!” Courfeyrac whacked the phone out of Bahorel’s hand once he’d pulled it out, and it went sailing through the air and into the grass a considerable distance away. “He might tell Jehan- if Jehan’s not holding him captive already to get to the rest of us!”  
  
“MOTHER- Courfeyrac, I swear to Christ, if it’s broken I’m going to dangle you off the damn foot-bridge by your frigging ankle!” Bahorel swore as he went to retrieve the cell-phone.  
  
Enjolras ran a hand over his face, looking weary. “You’re all hiding from Jehan because he wants to hug you.”  
  
“No, we’re hiding from Jehan because he wants to go Extreme Hugging Master on us, and it’s dangerous to our physical health.” Courfeyrac declared.  
  
Enjolras shut his eyes. “You know, Jehan approached me this morning for the same thing. I respectfully declined a hug on the basis that I wasn’t feeling well.” He said with a simple shrug. “Jehan was disappointed- and said that maybe a hug might make me feel better- but respected my request. Why don’t you just ask him not to hug you? He would never do anything to make any of you uncomfortable.”  
  
“Aside from nearly killing Bossuet.” Bahorel muttered, shooting Courfeyrac an ugly look as he wiped dirt off the screen of his phone.  
  
“My point still stands.”  
  
Grantaire, Courfeyrac and Bahorel all exchanged looks, and Courfeyrac grinned. “We like the chase.”  
  
It was difficult to tell if the growing fatigue on Enjolras’s face was from the fact that he felt ill, or from the story he had just heard. “…Well, I will just keep walking and let you wascally wabbits get back to your games.” He remarked, one eyebrow cocked high as he turned around and started off down the sidewalk again.  
  
“Sure you don’t need an escort back to the house?” Grantaire called after him hopefully.  
  
“No, I’ll manage.” Not an ounce of sarcasm, because Enjolras could not, for the life of him, understand even the lightest of flirting when he heard it.  
  
“All right then, men, back to the bushes.” Courfeyrac waved his hand at the undergrowth they had recently vacated. “We’re too exposed out here.”  
  
“Meanwhile, the phrase ‘wascally wabbits’ has never sounded hotter.” Grantaire mumbled, staring after the blond and not appearing to have heard what Courfeyrac said.  
  
“Oh my God, would you just _screw the man already?_ ”  
  
“We’re _not_ going back to the bushes.” Bahorel grimaced. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but why don’t we go to class? Jehan wouldn’t dare go running in there to hug us, would he?”  
  
Grantaire’s semi-dreamy expression dropped away, and he snorted. “Oh _yes_ he most certainly would! Can you _not_ picture him chasing us around the lecture hall with Professor Fauchelevant just standing back and watching?”  
  
Bahorel didn’t have to think on that long. “Shit, yes I can.”  
  
“I can also picture at least one of us falling and hurting ourselves. Have you ever noticed how _slippery_ the floor and stairs in that lecture-room are?” Courfeyrac shook his head, momentarily losing the air of General of their three-man army. “It’s ridiculous! It’s a wonder no one’s slipped and broken their neck in there _HOLY HOPPING HELL-TOADS, RUN FOR IT!_ ”  
  
It took Grantaire and Bahorel a moment to shift to crisis-mode (a process made even longer when they had to override the desire to laugh at Courfeyrac’s ridiculous exclamation), which is precisely what happened when they turned to their right and saw Jehan approaching at an alarming speed. Evidently their fellow young man had been attempting to creep up on the trio, but had failed when Courfeyrac spotted him and was now giving up on any pretense of stealth.  
  
The three fugitives fled, the sound of Jehan’s steps on the sidewalk behind them as foreboding as a lion to a herd of gazelle. They didn’t speak because all breath was reserved for the run, and so it was apparent that one of their number had been brought down when an “ _AGH!_ ” echoed down the street.  
  
Courfeyrac skidded to a stop. “He got Bahorel!”  
  
Grantaire grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. “It’s too late for him, keep running!” And so they did, leaving Jehan and Bahorel on the sidewalk.  
  
The lithe young man had executed his attack by wrapping his arms around Bahorel from behind, and was now laying across the older student’s back. “Oh _Jesus_ , Jehan, how did you get so strong?” Bahorel half-coughed, half-laughed as the poet sat up and smiled sweetly.  
  
“I’m not, really. You just have to know how to distribute your weight and jump.”  
   
[---]  
   
Courfeyrac and Grantaire dashed back to the ABC club’s shared house, ripping open the door and charging right for the staircase. “Where are we going?” Grantaire wheezed.  
  
“My room! We’ll barricade the door!”  
  
As it so happened, Enjolras wasn’t the only one home early: Joly had driven Bossuet to the doctor’s in order to get the cut on his foot checked out (following the class that Jehan had stalked him to). The two had returned only a few minutes before and were currently eating three week-old Jell-O in the kitchen. “Hey-” Joly started to call, but Courfeyrac and Grantaire paid him no heed, hell-bent on finding safety.  
  
Once they reached the second floor, their progress slowed a bit when they had to pass Enjolras’s room. Right at the beginning of the hall Grantaire slapped a hand over Courfeyrac’s mouth and dragged him along bodily (but silently) as they passed by the door, evidently not wanting to disturb Enjolras’s rest. Once they had reached Courfeyrac’s room, Grantaire released him and they stepped inside, shutting the door behind them.  
  
Thus began the process of reinforcing the door. Courfeyrac’s computer-chair went first, jammed beneath the doorknob, and then the two went about trying to maneuver his bed so that it blocked the door enough to prevent it from opening. If all else failed, escape could be made through the window- each member of the household had an emergency, collapsible fire-ladder stored in their closets. Moving the bed proved to be a Herculean task, not so much because it was heavy, but rather because Grantaire would glare mightily at Courfeyrac whenever it made a noise loud enough to potentially disturb Enjolras.  
  
“Oh get over it, the man’s slept through worse in this house!” Was Courfeyrac’s hissed reply.  
   
Once they had settled the bed in place, they huddled in the corner the bed had previously covered and went on high alert, listening for any sounds that might be concerning (such as, say, the JAWS theme spontaneously coming through the door).  
  
Needless to say, it’s difficult to stay in a sustained state of anxiety and terror when there was no immediate, pressing threat- it was even more difficult when said threat wasn’t actually a _threat_. Within forty-five minutes the two were on Courfeyrac’s laptop watching B-rated horror movies on Netflix, having almost completely forgotten that Jehan was looking for them.  
  
It was after three hours of jumping from movie to movie that the two realized it was nearly four o’ clock, and that in the process of fleeing with Bahorel they hadn’t eaten since nine. The barricade at the door was the reminder that there was something on the other side to be concerned about.  
  
“Is a bag of chips worth it?” Courfeyrac mused, pausing the violent ax-murder taking place on the screen.  
  
“The hell with chips, I’m hungrier than that.” Grantaire grunted, standing up and stretching. He started to tug the bed away from the door, just enough so that he could wedge it open.  
  
“Careful,” Courfeyrac warned, eyes wide. “You don’t know what might be lurking on the other side!”  
  
“Too hungry to care!” Grantaire called back.  
  
All the same, he trekked cautiously downstairs, mindful of every noise and every corner. He could hear his housemates talking, most of them having returned from their classes by now. But was Jehan’s voice among them? He couldn’t tell, and the growling in his stomach was more than enough to remind him that that mattered less than food at the moment.  
  
When he reached the kitchen, everything seemed to be clear. Not a hug-crazy poet to be found. Grantaire sighed in relief and relaxed a bit, walking to the refrigerator at an easier pace and throwing the door open. There was pepperoni, half of a sandwich, an uncooked chicken, some ridiculous-looking fruit (Combeferre was an adventurous man), a few less-than-ripe carrots… Grantaire grabbed for the pepperoni, deciding on making his own sandwich.  
  
As he shut the door, though, a most delightful sound came from the living room: Enjolras must have been feeling better, because he was speaking with Combeferre about something or other (probably what he had missed in class). Grantaire grinned, and decided that he might dare to venture into the room to greet his golden-haired idol once he had made his sandwich.  
  
However, when Grantaire turned to his right to find the bread, he was greeted with a terrifying sight:  
  
Jehan.  
  
“Gran _-ta-ire_.” He sang as he took a step forward, and honestly, it was a little-known fact that Jehan had the best sort of serial-killer face in his stranger moments. It was an interesting contrast, the ‘I’m going to kill you and bury your body in the flower-garden’ sort of expression mixed with his now open arms, intent on a hug.  
  
Grantaire immediately back-peddled, on the verge of what would unquestionably be a very pathetic scream, until he collided with someone else’s chest and had nowhere to go, forced to endure Jehan’s bear-hug. The person who had hindered Grantaire’s escape threw his arms around the both of them and hauled them into the air- Grantaire, crushed between him and Jehan, gasped for air even as he realized who the newcomer was.  
  
“T- _Traitor!_ ” He coughed.  
  
“You bastards left me behind. You deserve it.” Bahorel snickered as he set the two down. Jehan giggled, and suddenly he was all back to flowers and smiles and sunny days.  
  
“I knew I’d get you eventually.” He said proudly. Then a bit of the wickedness came back. “Where’s Courfeyrac?”  
  
Grantaire sighed. Well- if you can’t beat them, you might as well join them. “In his room. The door might still be wedged open.” Jehan skipped off, and Grantaire retrieved the bag of pepperoni from the floor. “Jesus Christ: National Free Hugs Day. Most terrifying day of the whole damn year.” He muttered as he wandered over to the bread-basket.  
  
Bahorel cackled. “Better than any other holiday! Next year I say we form teams.”  
  
They joined their friends in the living room, blatantly ignoring Courfeyrac’s screams of terror from the floor above.  
   
-End

**Author's Note:**

> This might actually end up becoming a loose series. I have a College!AU headcanon in which the Amis all live in a house together, and many shenanigans ensue.


End file.
